


i think we hit a wall

by dictionarysays



Category: SMAP
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dictionarysays/pseuds/dictionarysays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn’t take long for Nakai’s hands to go down to Kimura’s belt and for a disquieting darkness to settle into Kimura’s stare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i think we hit a wall

 

They’re at opposite ends of the table when Nakai gets up, unsteady, mumbling ‘bathroom’. Kimura’s nursing his third beer, kind of listening to Goro say something about cat litter and studies proving its hair healing qualities when he rises to his feet a few minutes later, going off. 

Shingo and Tsuyoshi share a look; Shingo tries not to crack a smirk. 

Kimura’s only half aware of what he’s doing when he slides past the partially closed bathroom door, hoping the others are distracted (drunk) enough to not notice. 

“Don’t.” Nakai’s voice is low. He stands in front of the toilet, one hand in his pants, the other flushing. Kimura doesn’t say anything about the shiver that climbs up Nakai’s side. 

He pushes his hands into his pockets and looks at the long bathroom mirror instead. The back of the closed door chills his back for a moment. 

“Seriously, get out,” Nakai spits this, hunched over the porcelain sink now and bracing it on both sides. His lips look even thinner in the mirror, they’re pursed, eyebrows furrowed halfway. 

But Kimura’s heart thumps because Nakai’s face is flushed and they both know it has nothing to do with the whiskey he was sipping outside. 

“I know your hearing’s fine, so what the fuck?” Nakai says again, his familiar rasp breaking. “ _Damn_ it, Kimura.” 

Kimura tries to speak, he really does, but nothing comes out. 

He clears his throat. 

“I can’t.” 

Nakai spins around to face him and the poisonous expression on his face makes Kimura forget about everything that’s pretty beneath it for a quick second. “Fuck you,” Nakai says this without missing a beat, meeting Kimura’s gaze and holding it. It’s hard and it burrows past Kimura’s insecurities and he thinks it’s that heat that brings him forward. 

He moves away from the door, forcing his hands out of his pockets (his jeans were stilling the trembles) and moves to stand directly in front of Nakai. He stiffens and the only thing that moves are his dark eyes. They follow the movement of Kimura’s hands when he skips pleasantries and pulls at the hem of Nakai’s green t-shirt, shoving it up past his nipples—his left hand skims across a quivering abdomen. 

Nakai shudders. 

“Let go,” Nakai’s voice falls flat, there’s nothing left. Kimura pulls him close. 

“Shhh, it’s okay,” he murmurs softly in response to the small sound of protest Nakai lets loose. Nakai pulls away but Kimura pulls back until Nakai leans in albeit reluctantly. 

“Shut up.” Nakai mumbles this without the heat from before. 

Kimura laughs, but it’s not from his gut. He can’t believe he’s touching Nakai like this; it’s been a long time. He doesn’t even know what started it; it’d been like any other get together. They’re few and far between but even still, he’d made it his mission to sit as far away from the smaller man as possible. He knows it only takes Nakai a few drinks down the hatch to get touchy-feely and they’d sworn months ago. 

But it was different this time. 

Before he’d known what he was doing, he found himself fitting into that old game of theirs. 

It had always started with smiles, punctuated by tiny grins and somewhere along the way Kimura had squeezed his socked foot beneath Nakai’s knees. At first, Kimura hadn’t been sure Nakai had even noticed but the clench in his jaw when he looked up from his glass, eyes slit—he knew and Kimura knew he couldn’t stop. 

And it brings them to now, their eyes meeting; Nakai’s deep browns mist in venomous hate. There’s something else though, the way his thighs press against his own; they’re both shaking and something like desire (more like pain) swoops in his gut. 

Kimura lifts an unsteady hand and pushes the fringe of his beanie back from Nakai’s brow; his thumb barely touches skin. He feels the shiver beneath his barely there touch. With his other hand he slips it up past Nakai’s chest and flicks his fingers across a nipple. Nakai shakes hard. He lifts his shirt higher and higher, he can see the faint muscles of Nakai’s stomach vibrate when he does. Nakai’s jaw becomes taut and he looks away, his breath comes out in a tiny wheeze. 

  
“I hate you, you asshole,” he chokes. Kimura does his best to ignore it. Without a word, he pins his shirt up with his left and trails back down gently with his right, drawing light circles over Nakai’s shivering torso. The erection straining in his jeans does everything but burst, his balls ache. All of this from the mere sight, touching what’s been off-limits for months (and still is) and he knows Nakai can feel it. Nakai’s sweat pants do nothing to hide the hard-on of his own.   
  
“I know,” Kimura soothes, letting his middle finger and thumb stroke the nipple once more, his throat tightens at how easily the soft nub hardens underneath. Nakai chokes out a disbelieving sound, whether it’s because of what Kimura said or did he isn’t sure, but it lilts into a sharp gasp and Kimura can’t stand this anymore.   
  
His left hand falls down to the waist of Nakai’s pants and with a practiced ease he pulls down the waistband until he’s exposed his arousal, it springs and is warm in Kimura’s palm.   
  
They both watch, breathless.   
  
Kimura swallows, heart racing in his neck as the shakes start up all over again—they grow from his feet up to his wrist and his lips dry at the sight of Nakai’s delicate bare torso and the hard erection in his hand.   
  
“Na _kai_... ” Kimura breathes, staring and staring, “I—you’re beautiful...  _fuck_.”   
  
Nakai shakes his head and quakes at the same time, trembling around Kimura; his face is drawn into an uncharacteristic twist.   
  
“Takuya,” he mumbles in a low and small voice, his breath hitching. Kimura’s head spins at the sound and he draws his free hand around the back of Nakai’s head, pressing against him with intent—their need separated by skin and jean.   
  
He fastens his mouth on the hard line of Nakai’s jaw and sucks, Nakai jerks, but none of him cares. He uses teeth and tongue, moistening the skin; he nips a slow path up the dips in Nakai’s cheek and huffs quietly, twisting his wrist.   
  
The hand wrapped around Nakai’s length tightens and slowly moves. Kimura shifts and presses his lips into the chunk of Nakai’s hair pinched by his beanie behind his ear.   
  
“Hiro, I want... ” Kimura swallows, stroking still, nuzzling the soft patch of skin around Nakai’s hair, “ _I need_ —”   
  
The only sound in the bathroom is their uneven breathing for a long beat; Kimura squeezes carefully, moving his hand over Nakai liberally, tingling skin on tingling skin. He’s firm.   
  
“Kim—“   
  
"Shhh,” Kimura cuts Nakai off carelessly, absently biting on his ear lobe, shivering from the arousal pooling in his groin, in his head, the growing sensations flooding him from the inside out distract him. Kimura holds back a squirm and bites down on his own lip instead.   
  
“ _Shit_ , Kimura—” Nakai’s voice breaks and Kimura stills, pulling back from his place in Nakai’s hair and twisting to stare. He looks at Nakai’s face, he’s flushed and it’s contorted and his small lips are half-open, drawing in trembling breaths. Kimura’s hand stops its rhythmic motion and Nakai reaches down to loosen and uncurl Kimura’s fingers.   
  
He peers up and stares. Kimura’s heart freezes from the molten heat swimming in his tea brown eyes.   
  
And then Nakai stretches up and pulls Kimura’s mouth down to his.   
  
His fingers thread into Kimura’s long hair, scraping and tugging—there’s nothing gentle about the way he digs into Kimura’s scalp or the way his mouth attacks his own but none of that matters. Their lips smash together, hungry and hard, eating and bruising for the most part; all Kimura does is respond with a savageness of his own. Their teeth clink more often than sometimes, Nakai’s tongue pushes into Kimura’s mouth and his growl is guttural in kind. Their breathing is harsh and it’s all over Kimura’s face and it’s all he can hear, even when Nakai’s pulling him down, hand fisted into the front of Kimura’s low-neck v, the other winding itself around his neck, catching pieces of his hair and tugging him closer.   
  
Kimura’s insides squeeze and he doesn’t know how he does it, but he turns them a little and with messy calculations shoves Nakai backwards, propelling his back straight into the door. The door slams.   
  
He breathes into the mouth beneath his, open-mouthed and hot, dragging Nakai’s full lower lip between his teeth and worrying the gummy skin. Kimura’s hands weave up at their own accord and catch Nakai’s face, rubbing his cheeks, biting back a puff of laughter that threatens to spill at the flow of warm affection that bubbles directly under his skin—Nakai clutches at one of Kimura’s tanned wrists. Nakai pulls Kimura closer, he presses his erection into the lower half of Kimura’s stomach; he bumps the stitches of Kimura’s jeans and they both groan.  
  
Kimura wrenches his mouth away from Nakai’s, arms bracing the door on either side of his head, gasping; his heart floats in his throat. His lips quirk at the sight of Nakai’s beanie smooshed to the back of his head; it goes floppy.   
  
“How fucked is this,” Kimura says this softly, huskily, he doesn’t even realize it’s him until Nakai’s raspy chuckle brushes past his ear. They both take this moment to control themselves; Nakai shuts his eyes briefly, willing the flush to fade from his cheeks. Kimura sucks in air, staring a hole into the supple curve of Nakai’s bared shoulder, trying to restrain himself.   
  
It doesn’t take long for Nakai’s hands to go down to Kimura’s belt (which he begins to undo) and for a disquieting darkness to settle into Kimura’s stare. He’s quiet and still, Nakai unbuckles the whole thing with familiar ease and tugs at the button and zipper, and there’s suddenly an expanse of golden defined torso and a raging hard-on that bobs when it’s free.   
  
They share a stare. Nakai’s panting and a snarl shakes in Kimura’s throat.   
  
He watches as Nakai slowly licks his lips, pink tongue sweeping across his mouth, white teeth peeping coyly from behind glistening lips—something inside Kimura breaks and he pays no mind to the incoherent sound he makes before reaching and forcing Nakai’s face up. He brings three fingers and slips them into Nakai’s mouth; the older man wheezes through his nose, mouth trembling around the digits. Kimura’s whole body vibrates when his other hand leaves the door and shoves Nakai’s pants completely down, he fumbles for a second with Nakai’s length, swirling his fingers in his mouth at the same time.   
  
A few minutes later Nakai’s pressed into the door, face first, one arm bracing the door, the other grasping for balance. Kimura’s behind, one hand curled tightly around his hip, Nakai shakes, rocking on the balls of his feet.  
  
“Oh  _god_ , I hate you,” he mumbles into the crook of his arm but Kimura makes out every single breath. Kimura wants to grin but the flare of need in the back of his neck stops him as he works his fingers inside Nakai instead. He convulses, eyes screwed shut—everything that’s bottled inside him feels as if it’s being pulled and Nakai can’t stand the idea that the months before this are about to mean nothing. His chest is hot and full when Kimura finds the right spot, his body is strung up and Kimura’s quaking thighs press into the small of his back because it takes two.  
  
Nakai fights back a yell, every part of his body thrums with flashes of ecstasy when Kimura finally enters him, slow and hot and Nakai thinks he stops breathing. Kimura grits his teeth, fingers digging into the smooth skin of Nakai’s hip, he pushes in until the hilt and his ragged groan follows the muted thwack of Nakai’s forehead hitting the door, Nakai presses for the coolness but is looking to stay grounded. He claws at the doorjamb, anything to stop his surrender; Kimura doesn’t need to feel the thickness in the air to know his hard and fast thrusts are what both men need.   
  
They don’t speak, the open-ended hostility of before evaporates into something raw, more tremulous, and as Kimura slides a hand across Nakai’s abdomen and grabs his erection, Nakai wants to cry. He bucks instead, legs shivering; he pushes back into Kimura’s hips. Kimura matches the pace of his thrusts with the twisting of his fist, Nakai mewls because Kimura is still too good and his focus turns into a needlepoint built on desire, pain and doorframes.   
  
It’s only three minutes of the echoing smacks of Kimura’s hips slapping his own and his unintelligible moaning and writhing, (they soak in sweat) before Nakai shoots all over the folds of his stomach and in between the spaces of Kimura’s long fingers. Kimura grasps at everything; the back of Nakai’s green shirt, the slippery juncture between his thighs, before he shoves himself once more into Nakai, rolling his hips and letting go. Nakai knows he’s done before he erupts because Kimura presses his sticky forehead to his shoulder and bites down hard, breaking through skin—the husky groan scares Nakai not because it reverberates across his skin and his knees give way but because his heart shudders at the sudden focus of Kimura's grin playing around Nakai's ears.   
  
  
Nakai’s eyes are bright, neck pink when they return to the living room twelve minutes later—Kimura lets the corner of his mouth lift. He remembers Nakai’s hushed and rusty, “Don’t fuck with me,” after they were done but he remembers more distinctly the pretty little way Nakai tucked himself back into his sweat pants, grumbling.   
  
Kimura steals Tsuyoshi’s beer, though and Shingo tries to arm wrestle Nakai so Goro can watch.   
  
Nakai glances up and when their eyes meet, in spite of everything between, his eyes crinkle and Kimura knows there’s nothing he can do.   
  
He wants to fuck with him again.

 


End file.
